Drown and Ignite
by lucelafonde
Summary: When Katniss is chosen to enter the arena, everything changes. While the whole world wonders about her and Peeta, she finds herself drawn to someone else.


Everybody knows Haymitch Abernathy in 12, but when he falls down the stage next to me, it is the closest I've ever been to him, and I instantly feel appreciative of that fact. He is half the reason my district is the laughing stock of the Games, but to be honest, it wouldn't matter if he was sober and all dressed up anyway.

Nothing would change.

Nothing ever does.

So I peek cautiously over the edge of the stage and watch a couple of men carry Haymitch away on a stretcher as Effie keeps on talking senselessly in the distance and don't let it bother me that this man is supposed to be my mentor for all I have probably left of my future.

#

Next time I see him, he has barely made an appearance for more than a second before he vomits all over the floor and Peeta and I are left to clean him up in the slim hopes of turning him into something useful. Our efforts seem in vain until I almost chop his hand off with a knife and he decides we might be worth sobering up for.

Or at least as much as Haymitch is capable of without collapsing. He has probably replaced his blood with white liquor by now.

I decide to take his advice and hope for the best, although it does make me wonder what exactly the stylists did to him back when he was a tribute. Do the boys have to go through the same ordeal I do? It seems ludicrous that ANYONE would be subjected to something like this, but here I am, being rid of practically every hair that is not attached to my scalp in the most painful manner imaginable, and the thought that Haymitch had to go through the same thing at some point in the past just like Peeta does now helps me preserve my sanity.

#

When Haymitch shows up all clean and proper for the first time I can remember, in the Hob or at previous Games, I am stunned. He even behaves and doesn't try to start a fight with Effie, which makes the experience of dinner somewhat surreal.

#

Peeta's words ring in my ear.

_She has no idea. The effect she can have._

It's hard to concentrate, but I manage to go through the training and the forced proximity to my fellow tribute with iron will. What is Haymitch trying to achieve? He knows we'll have to kill each other in a matter of days, and now he wants us playing friends? Why? To spite the Capitol?

Easy for him.

He's not the one who will have to kill Peeta when it comes down to it. Getting to know him sure won't make it any easier, but I am determined to do whatever it takes. Before the Games even begin, I know I am capable of doing it.

Not because of skill.

Not because of strength.

I have to.

For Prim.

Peeta has a luxury he isn't even aware of, and that is that his survival isn't NECESSARY. It's harsh, but the truth is, his family will live on without him. Hardly anything will change. Me, I have to make sure Prim is provided for. Gale will feed her and mum for as long and as much as he can, of that I have no doubt, but what happens if he can't anymore? What if something happens to him?

No, I have to get back. I promised Prim I would try, and I am determined to do it.

And who knows, if I survive, we will even live in luxury.

What a trade-off for becoming a murderer.

For the first time I wonder about the previous victors.

About Haymitch specifically, because he's the only one I've ever met in person, and if that is a glimpse into my future, I don't want it.

I am torn.

I have to win for Prim, but I don't want to end up like that.

I wonder how much Haymitch has changed in the arena. If perhaps I won't become like him because he was screwed up from the beginning.

I want to believe it, but I know that if that had been the case, he probably wouldn't have made it out alive.

I envy Peeta. It seems so delightful to be able to say "I won't be a pawn in their game" and not be afraid of the consequences.

Looking at him makes me sick.

He reminds me of everything I can never have, and everything I will never be.

#

When Haymitch calls me sweetheart for the first time in that condescending tone of his, I'm furious and anxious, and it tips me right over the edge so I spill everything, but somehow I feel better afterwards, and that only makes me hate him more. Especially after he reassures me by telling me the ugly truth in his usual cynical but composed manner.

I am relieved.

So relieved, in fact, that I walk aimlessly through the hallways because I'm too giddy to go to bed after they've announced our scores.

11.

I might actually have a chance.

I might actually get to see Prim again.

An exhausted chuckle escapes me, and I drop into the cushions of the couch in front of the big screen where I apparently doze off for a while, because when I come to, Haymitch is sitting beside me with a drink and a blank expression.

When he notices I'm awake, he pushes another glass filled with some amber liquid into my hand and wordlessly watches me taste it.

I spit it out almost immediately, coughing like crazy, and he laughs, but there is no maliciousness behind it, just honest joy, and I wonder if I'm perhaps not the only one too relieved to sleep.

"Good job today, sweetheart," he says, reaching out to take the glass from me, "but you better leave the drinking to me."

I am instantly annoyed, as if I actually cared whether anyone thought I could hold my liquor or not, and hold onto the glass tightly as I stretch my arm out of Haymitch's reach. "I can drink just fine."

He blinks at me, stunned for a moment, before he says: "Oh? 'S that so? Well then, drink up, girl on fire. There are big days ahead of you and all."

I snort because that doesn't really seem like a reason to drink to me, but I down the glass in one go anyway, mostly because I don't think I can bring myself to take more than one gulp of the disgusting liquid, and a part of me admires Haymitch for being able to drink that rotten brew like water day after day.

Perhaps his taste-buds have died off by now, and the alcohol has cauterised his throat so he doesn't feel the burning anymore when he swallows.

"This is revolting," I voice my thoughts as I put down the glass with an audible thunk.

Haymitch just shrugs, sipping unconcernedly at his own drink. "It's the really posh Capitol stuff. Prefer the good old cheap mess they sell at the Hob myself."

I can only imagine what THAT tastes like, but since I don't want to, I don't ask.

"I don't think you should be drinking that," I say instead, uncertain what else to fill the silence with. Haymitch is hard to figure out because as far as I know he isn't really in contact with anyone in 12, or at least I've never seen him talk to anyone for longer than a transaction required, and even now on this trip he's never talked about anything other than mentor stuff, so I keep to the only thing I know about him, and that is alcohol.

"Yeah, well, it might kill me," he says, and I think for a moment he might be hoping for that.

I think back to my own problems and finally ask the question that nags at me every time I set eyes on Haymitch.

"Do all victors end up like you?"

He snorts, refilling his glass from a bottle I only now notice he's been holding on to the entire time.

"If things turn out all right, you might find out."

But the way he says it makes me not look forward to that one bit, and he must have sensed it, because the next thing he does is refill my glass too, and before I know it I am clinging to the crystal and swallowing as if my life depended on it.

At least my sanity does.

I start to understand how Haymitch can stand it.

"You don't even like me," I say into the silence, reminding him that he should be rooting for Peeta because people can't help loving him, but he seems unperturbed at my comment.

"Well, you are rude, hostile, and generally oddly dislikable." He shrugs. "You remind me a lot of myself, so perhaps I want you to win out of spite. Does it matter?"

I contemplate it for a moment, wondering if there is any truth in his words.

I want to be angry at the comparison, but something tells me that he's right, and the way he said it wasn't meant to antagonise me, so I simply stay silent and stare at him hard, conveying my own dislike for him with every fibre of my being.

"Truth is, you got a real chance out there," he goes on, and I wonder if he's had too much to drink because I can't imagine it being a good idea to tell your tributes you're pulling favourites before the Games have even started, "you got skills, and with a bit of luck, who knows?"

He shrugs again and refills our glasses.

I make it a point not to look at him when he hands mine back to me because I can feel my vision turning blurry, and by now the intense burning sensation has turned into something less unbearably hot and more comfortably smoldering in my belly, and I laugh quietly at the thought.

The girl who was on fire.

Burning from the inside out.

Haymitch doesn't ask about my sudden change of mood, and I find myself liking him a bit more because he never asks. He doesn't even try to befriend me or involve me in any meaningless conversations like Peeta does, and he isn't pushy like Effie. He just… exists, and I suddenly find comfort in the fact.

It's nice.

Being without being needed. Without having to fulfil any expectations.

"This is a nice suite," I say eventually, and by now I've lost count of the glasses I've had, but there's still some liquid in the bottle Haymitch is holding, so I suppose it isn't that bad yet. Besides, I think I deserve slacking off for one night. I scored an 11 at the assessment, I haven't lashed out at anyone recently, and in a couple of days I'll probably be all sliced up, so who knows if I'll ever get the chance to let go like this again?

"Different from home, what?" Haymitch chuckles, and I can clearly hear he's drunk now.

I wonder if I sound the same.

"Yeah," I say, emptying the glass in my hand before I shove it back at him to refill. "It's disgusting."

He laughs loudly at that, his hand swaying noticeably as he pours the liquor into both our glasses. "Once a Seam kid, always a Seam kid," he says wisely, and I wonder if he feels as out of place as I do here, even though he's been a mentor for over two decades now. He at least seems to have an easier time dealing with the Capitol people than I do, but I suppose that's practice because he never looks like he enjoys talking to anyone.

He looks like he's enjoying it now.

"I always thought I'd starve there," I say, and it sounds fondly sentimental to my ears. The alcohol has gotten to me. I can't think straight anymore.

"You still might," Haymitch promises, and that's that.

I suddenly realise that there are a lot of things that may or may not happen after the Games, but I don't want to think about them. I don't, but I say "I never wanted kids" and watch Haymitch squint at me through a drunken veil as if I've just said the weirdest thing.

"Good for you," he says eventually, and I notice he's tense now, as if he knows what will happen next, and perhaps he does because he did say I reminded him of himself.

I clumsily turn towards him, spilling some of the liquor on the expensive sofa with grim satisfaction at the thought of damaging Capitol property, and press my lips against his for a second, just to try it out.

He's stiff now, but he neither moves nor tries to shove me away, and when I lean back again, he's eyeing me wearily, as if all life has been drained from him, but I keep clinging to his shoulder for balance.

"I always wondered why people did it," I explain the inexplicable, but I think Haymitch already knows. "I just wanted to see why anyone would do that to their kids."

He grunts, and I can see the beaten understanding in his eyes, telling me he never wanted kids either, but he moves forward and presses his lips against mine anyway, and this time we linger, perhaps too drunk to move away.

His tongue pushes between my lips, and I can feel it in my mouth, sloppy, drenched in alcohol, and I realise I'm not half as revolted as I should be.

The alcohol really must have gotten to me.

It's not overly passionate or really much of anything. Just two drunk idiots drowning out the noise of the Capitol buzzing in their heads for a few minutes, and I know once the morning comes and we've slept off our headaches, we will never speak of it again, but for the moment this is perfect and just what I needed.

No sweet words, no misplaced kindness, no forced friendships or appearances.

This here, right now, is real and sloppy and messed up, but it fits, somehow, and I'm happy I came here tonight, and grateful that Haymitch can't sleep without liquor.

We break apart after who knows how long, and Haymitch takes a swig right from the bottle before he wipes his mouth with his shirtsleeve and looks at me out of unfocused eyes.

"You should sleep. Effie will give us all an earful if you turn up with rings under your eyes tomorrow."

I'm pretty sure tomorrow is today already, but my brain is too fuzzy to form a coherent response, so all I do is try to get up, but my feet are wobbly from sitting too long, and my balance is all messed up from the alcohol, so I stumble and cling to Haymitch's shoulder in an attempt to stay upright, digging my fingernails undoubtedly painfully into his flesh, but he doesn't protest.

Doesn't do anything, in fact, except watch me from behind clouded eyes until I'm out of his sight.

The headache in the morning will be killing me.

#

As expected, when Effie wakes me in the morning, my head is pounding and I barely make it out of bed without emptying my stomach. I force myself to join the others for breakfast although the smell of food is revolting and my stomach protests violently at the thought of digesting anything. I put something on my plate anyway so as not to worry Effie and pretend I'm fine when I join the conversation.

"So, what's going on? You're coaching us on interviews today, right?"

That's right.

But Peeta has asked to be coached separately, and I think he's finally showing his true colours.

It's somehow reassuring that I'm not the only one annoyed by the entire "peace and friendship" act, but I can't help feel a bit betrayed by the sudden turn of events.

Good.

It will make things a lot easier in the arena.

Haymitch sends me off with Effie, and the way he acts as if nothing happened makes me wonder whether I've hallucinated the latter part of the evening in some drunk delusion. I have never had alcohol before I came to the Capitol, and before last night I have never been drunk. It's entirely possible the liquor messed with my memories, and that's what I choose to believe as I follow Effie from the table to get the four hours in solitary confinement with her over with.

I make it, even if just so, and then I switch to Haymitch, who is as unlikable as ever when he's telling me how unlikable I am.

He ends up getting drunk because I'm hopeless, but he refuses to give me anything of the liquor, holding it way out of my reach for the entirety of the mock interview. I wonder if perhaps I would be more willing to talk if I got drunk tomorrow and if that idea has crossed his mind, but then I think about Haymitch falling off the stage on live television and keep as much distance to the bottle as I can.

It might help me in terms of looking useless in front of my fellow tributes so they underestimate me, but when it comes to sponsors, I would just be embarrassing myself.

The thought of Prim watching me tumble over Caesar Flickerman makes me laugh, and I wonder if perhaps I should do it just to amuse her.

Take the edge off.

I leave Haymitch after we're done saying spiteful things to each other and let out my anger at a couple of plates in my room.

Destroying Capitol property has become a great release for me, and I almost sleep peacefully that night when the mess is cleaned up.

#

After I get over Peeta's crazy love declaration that leaves me speechless, I spend a few hours lying wide awake before I realise I won't sleep a wink tonight and get up to at least calm my nerves a bit by getting some air. When I get out I literally stumble into Haymitch, causing him to curse, and I can hear a splash that tells me he was probably drinking.

He seems to have avoided getting most of it on either of us, but I still feel a few wet drops on my clothes as they soak through to my skin. I want to be annoyed, but it was my fault to begin with, and I don't really care.

There are too many things on my mind as I watch him shake his wet hand to get rid of the droplets.

"Nothing good ever comes of you being awake," he notices, but he doesn't sound half as bitter as I thought he would, considering I just spilt his drink.

He probably has a lot more stashed away somewhere.

"You should be sleeping too," I point out, although I can't remember Haymitch ever sleeping during nighttime.

He concedes the point and doesn't mention it again.

"I see you got rid of all that colour," he says instead, sizing me up in the half-darkness of the hallway. I feel a lot more comfortable without the makeup, endless fabric, and heels, despite Cinna's amazing efforts, so I took a shower as soon as possible.

"I'm impressed. I thought some of it would stick indefinitely," he continues, swallowing the meagre remains of his drink.

I shrug.

"Perhaps if you leave it on too long. Can you imagine what the Capitol people must look like beneath all those layers?"

He laughs, and for a moment I forget I should be angry with Haymitch for putting me on the spot with Peeta.

"Did you see those guys with whiskers?" he asks and tries to recreate them with his fingers.

"Yes. I'm just grateful Cinna didn't want to experiment with me too much."

"Lucky you." He smiles slightly, and I can see him fiddling with his empty glass. He must be itching for more, but the fact that he stays with me instead of running off to get some impresses me slightly. Perhaps he feels my nervousness, or can guess at it given that he has been in the same position once, but not being alone right now really helps, so I say "I have a bottle of wine stashed in my room" and wait for his reaction.

I do, because when I saw it on a tray after the terrible practice sessions with Effie and Haymitch I thought about drinking all of it to forget about the interview for a couple of hours, but then I remembered my resolve not to turn into my mentor and left it hidden underneath my bed. He might not be much, but at least Haymitch is a good reminder not to stray too far off the path.

"Classy," he says with a surprised raise of his eyebrows, but he follows me into my room anyway and falls down on the bed like he owns the place while I grab for the bottle.

"Nice." I don't know if he means the room or the wine when I hand it to him, but he refills his glass as I watch him silently from beside the bed. He takes a sip and then grunts appreciatively. "I see you got the good stuff before Effie could take it."

"She'll think it was you anyway." I shrug, unperturbed by the prospect of being found out. What are they going to do? Kill me? I'm scheduled for that tomorrow, so I might as well indulge.

I take the bottle from Haymitch and drink straight from it, realising with a start that I haven't thought about my imminent death in a while.

"That's true," he says, watching me with slight surprise as I keep gulping down the red liquid as if it was water. It's sweet, so it's easier to swallow than the stuff Haymitch gave me last time, but I suspect the headache will be just as epic.

I probably shouldn't be drinking so much.

It might get me killed.

I take another sip.

"Then again, she'll be complaining to me anyway, so what does one more bottle matter?" He takes it from my hands gently but firmly, telling me wordlessly that I shouldn't overdo it while he drinks from it himself.

I feel the floor beneath me start to transform into an unsteady mess, so I plop down in the bed next to him, propping myself up against the headboard as I snatch the bottle from his grasp.

"Isn't that the deal?" I ask, swaying the liquid in the bottle a bit to watch it crash against the glass in waves that remind me of blood. "We come here to get killed and everyone gets to live in luxury for a few days?"

"A fair price if you ask me," Haymitch declares, and the way he says it tells me he's just as disgusted as I feel even without him stealing the bottle from me to take a huge gulp.

"Looks like the odds were in my favour," I say, doing my best to mimic Effie's voice. I don't know how convincing I sounded because the alcohol has already dulled my senses and I can barely keep the bottle steady anymore when I take it back, but Haymitch laughs anyway, and I decide it was good enough.

"To the star-crossed lovers of District 12," he declares as he raises the bottle and takes a huge sip before he hands it back to me.

"Hear hear," I say, no longer angry at the act because the alcohol has driven me beyond caring, and swallow for as long as I can before I drop the now almost empty bottle on my thigh and keep it upright with my unsteady hand.

Haymitch doesn't say anything, and again I'm grateful. If he tried to cheer me up or feed me lies about how bright my future looks, I would throw the bottle at his head even with my surely crappy aim at the moment, hoping it would kill him. Instead, he's just lying there, staring at the ceiling as if it held the answer to everything, and his steady breathing calms my nerves.

The wine helped, and headache tomorrow or not, I'm relieved. For a few minutes I don't think about the Games. I don't think about home or Prim or Gale. I don't think about Peeta, who, starting tomorrow, will be on my hitlist, and the best I can do is hope someone else will do the job for me. I don't think about anything at all, and I wonder how much of that is due to the alcohol and how much is not being alone with my thoughts for the night.

We remain silent for a long time before Haymitch wrestles the bottle from my grip and drinks the last of it, dropping the empty remains on the ground with some disappointment, but I don't think either of us should get up to get more. We've had enough. We need to be good to go tomorrow, but what I say when he tries to get up is "don't go" and I keep my logic to myself, mouth unable to form the words as I want them.

He stares at me for a second, halfway caught between lying and standing, and after a moment's hesitation he drops on top of me, mouth pressed against mine. I think that that's not how I meant it, and just when I try to tell him, his tongue touches mine and I realise that if this is my last carefree night on earth, I might as well do something crazy.

Once I'm in the arena, my every move could decide between life and death, so being able to do something without having to think about the consequences is amazing, and I feel myself get lost beneath Haymitch's touches for a while. It doesn't mean anything, and it's just as lazy and sloppy as the first time, but it's comforting in a way, feeling someone else's warmth in the face of almost certain death, and I allow myself to not think about anything for a few minutes.

We stop after a while, and when he tries to get up and leave, looking as unsteady on his feet as I feel, I grab his arm and drag him back, forcing him to lie beside me as I snuggle into his side in my drunken stupor, uncaring for the moment what it will look like in the morning.

It's not like I will live long to regret this.

As if he knows it, he doesn't struggle or attempt to move again. He just lies there, one arm wrapped around my shoulder, and amazingly enough I fall asleep.


End file.
